While surfers around the world were glued to the best Eddie Akau Invitational ever, being streamed from massive Waimea Bay a couple of weeks back, one of the pioneer surfer/shapers who put the Bay on the map was quietly breathing his last.
The enigmatic, taciturn and legendary Pat Curren, big wave pioneer of the 1950s, shaper of the best balsa guns ever made but best known as father of three-times world champion Tom Curren, passed away aged 90.
Encyclopedia of Surfing founder Matt Warshaw blogged: “From [Tom’s younger brother] Joe Curren’s Instagram: ‘We said goodbye to my dad on Sunday 22 January in North County, San Diego. His family, including all of his kids, and most of his grandkids were at his side when he passed. We are all going to miss him.’ Unverified, but from a source close to the family, Pat was reportedly watching the Eddie-Waimea livestream not long before he died.”
I’d like to think so, but I doubt it. Despite (or perhaps because of) the pivotal role he had played in the development of big wave surfing, Pat had long distanced himself from the surfing mainstream, which for several decades included the surfing members of his own family.
A complex and difficult man who played by his own rules and didn’t give a damn what people thought of him, Pat abandoned his wife and kids when Tom was a delinquent early teenager and spent most of the rest of his life eking out an existence in beach shacks and trailer parks in Costa Rica and Mexico.
There was not a lot to admire in these aspects of Pat Curren, and yet the legend remained irresistible to many of us who tried to chronicle surfing’s dark sides as well as its triumphs.
As Warshaw put it eloquently in his History of Surfing: “Curren was the slouching near-mute apotheosis of surf-cool: draining an afternoon beer, flicking a cigarette butt to the side, then taking down Malibu golden boy Tommy Zahn in a paddle race; flying to Hawaii one season with no luggage save a 10-pound sack of flour for making tortillas; sailing the 3000-mile Great Circle route from Honolulu to Los Angeles on a 64-foot cutter and posing for a photo en route, bearded and watch-capped, a huge Havana cigar jutting from a corner of his mouth, left hand on the wheel, right hand holding a shot glass of crème de menthe.”
Warshaw continued: “Cooler than all these things put together, Curren would invariably pick off and ride the biggest, thickest, meanest wave of the day… The ride itself was stripped down and fluid, as Curren went into a deep crouch, spread his arms like wings, and led with chest and long chin. Tearing across a huge wave face, in circumstances where other riders dropped automatically into a survival stance, Curren looked like an Art Deco hood ornament.”
I only met Pat twice, and the second barely qualifies, but the first occasion was historic in terms of the Curren family history.
I was running the Masters World Championships for Quiksilver in Bundoran, Ireland in 2001 when Tom, as one of the invitees, showed up with his photographer brother Joe, 10 years his junior, and their legendary dad. Tom Curren by this time far outranked the old man in the legend stakes, but this trip wasn’t about that, nor was it about winning a world title. It was a father and sons bonding trip, the final stage in a slow journey of reconciliation that Joe had instigated.
The Currens arrived early, well ahead of the pack, and rolled into one of Bundoran’s quaint pubs, where I was slaking my thirst with some work mates.
Tom’s never been big on introductions, but I wormed my way into the group and ended up drinking whisky chasers with Pat into the customary “lock-in” which allows drinking after hours as long as you leave by the back door.
I found Pat to be reasonable company on the few occasions I bumped him over the course of the contest, but the next time I saw him a few years later it was a different story. While living in California, we’d taken to slipping down to Cabo for a few days to surf and laze around, and because I preferred the crowd-free breaks of the eastern cape, I’d rented a small beach house near the village of Zacatitos, a long dirt road drive from the tourist town of San Jose del Cabo.
Early one morning, waiting for the tide to drop out a little before I surfed One Palm, I took a stroll through the dusty little village and saw Pat Curren, messing around with some fish nets outside a beaten-up trailer. Hey, we’d closed the bar together in Ireland, he’d remember me! I called his name and Pat looked up, registered my presence and ran.
From Joe’s account it seems that in his final years Pat had stopped running and found some peace. I hope so.
Apple watch disaster at Pipe
The first WSL world championship event of the season, the Pipe Pro is on hold as I write, waiting on a new swell, so I have little to report other than Steph Gilmore’s early exit, saying farewell to the yellow jersey for who knows how long.
But far more interesting than the surfing so far is the Apple watch fiasco.
As Swellnet’s Steve Shearer reported on the live coverage: “The new deal with Apple watches was rammed relentlessly down our throats today – even at the expense of covering the action. It made Leo Fioravanti’s broadside in his presser [conference] feel like the highlight of the day. ‘Our frickin’ watches weren’t working – and that’s pretty heavy,’ stated the het-up Italian, finishing with a devastating assessment: ‘We’re fighting for our careers.’
I feel Leo’s pain here because I too have a stupid watch that doesn’t deliver the vital info I need as a mature age athlete, and instead keeps telling me I haven’t completed my ring, whatever that means. A pox on their houses.
